


Looney with a Capital I (Reprise)

by Quasi_Detective



Series: Looney with a Capital I [3]
Category: Looney Tunes | Merrie Melodies
Genre: Accidental Death, Accidents, Arguing, Bad Jokes, Cartoon Physics, Character Death, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Foreshadowing, Fucked Up, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, M/M, Murder, Not Really Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Out of Character, Plot Twists, Presumed Dead, Rewrite, Tags Contain Spoilers, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-31 23:23:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13985505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quasi_Detective/pseuds/Quasi_Detective
Summary: Bugs and Daffy thought everything was simple. All they had to do was play their roles and have fun—no harm, no foul. Then, by accident, a playful prank done in self-defense turns into manslaughter. With blood on his hands, Bugs finds himself caught in a dire situation. In his desperation, he turns to the only person he knows to be more dangerous than himself. But to what lengths will Daffy go to defend and protect his best friend? Can Bugs be saved, or will Daffy intervene too late?





	1. Whoops-a-Daisy

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Looney with a Capital I](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4127260) by [Quasi_Detective](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quasi_Detective/pseuds/Quasi_Detective). 



> Sometime in 2016, I told myself I was done with fanfiction. But four years ago (or maybe more), I wrote this story. A lot of people seemed/seem to _still_ like it, and I've had several comments insisting I continue its sequel. I've forgotten where I wanted it to go, though. So, instead, I've decided to have some fun by rewriting the original story. I've tried to stay as true to the original as I can, while improving upon it wherever possible. In part, this is to see how much I've improved writing-wise over the course of four years.  
>  Hope you all enjoy this reprise to what is probably one of the darkest Looney Tunes fanfictions ever written!  
> ~ _Noëlle_

All Daffy Duck could hear was screaming. In the driver’s seat of the black SUV was Porky Pig. His squeal of fear was accented by the sound of him stomping on the brakes, as if that might help them in some way. Riding shotgun, the black duck glanced up at the rearview mirror.  
            In the backseat sat Bugs Bunny. Clutching his injured left forearm, white gloves stained with blood, he stared ahead with vacant black eyes. The only light came from the headlights at the front of the car, so the shadows made it hard to tell how much he’d bled. Was he mute from shock or blood loss? The gashes on his arm were deep, but he’d refused Porky’s help . . . when? A few hours ago? Had he been bleeding for a few hours now? The sun had been up. Now, outside was plunged in darkness, lit only by the moon and the headlights. It hadn’t seemed so long . . .  
            Bugs’ eyes moved up, meeting Daffy’s indirect stare in the mirror. The past three days were a blur, but how they’d wound up here—mid-fall over the side of a cliff, heading straight for a pond—was the most perplexing.  
            _Becausthe of Bugsth_ , Daffy thought. _Everything that’sth happened hasth been because of Bugsth. Now that sthmug sthon of a bitch hasth killed usth!_  
            But that didn’t mean the duck himself was any less to blame. Only that in typical sociopathic fashion, he refused to acknowledge the hand he’d played in their current predicament. Bugs might even go as far as to say it was _all_ his fault.  
            The last thing Daffy heard was the sound of the windshield smashing. Then, everything went black.

* * *

“Bugsth! Hey, Bugsth! Bugsthie, ol’ pal, hey!”  
            In the midst of the forest stood a white mailbox beside a hole in the ground. In hand-written black letters, the side read “B. Bᴜɴɴʏ”. As fast as his lanky golden-orange legs could carry him, Daffy zoomed his way past the trees and bushes until he finally reached the rabbit’s domain. Impatient as ever, he wasted no time in reaching into the hole, from which he pulled Bugs by the white fur on his chest. The rabbit seems unsurprised by his intrusion. A little annoyed, sure, but not surprised.  
            “Eh, what’s up, doc?” inquired Bugs as he chewed on the carrot in his left hand.  
            Daffy released the bunny and shoved a paper toward him. “Read thisth!”  
            After idly glancing at it, Bugs took the page from the duck’s feathered black hands and straightened it.  
            “Mr. Duck, thank you for your application for ‘The Game’. We are pleased to announce that you have won ‘The Game’. Thanks again, Warner Bros.”  
            “Well? What do ya think of that, huh, Bugsthie? I bet you’re mighty jealousth, aren’t ya?”  
            Bugs looked up at Daffy and blinked. “Sorry to boist yoir bubble, Daff, but I t’ink you lost.”  
            Dismayed, Daffy’s eyes deflated. “You’re joking.”  
            Out of the blue, the muzzle of an elephant gun pressed against Daffy’s back. Both cartoons looked; in his usual brown hunting attire stood Elmer Fudd, thick finger curled around the hair trigger.  
            “Put yohw hands up, duck,” he said. “It’s duck season.”  
            “Oh no you don’t!” Daffy ripped Bugs all the way out of his hole, then used him as a meat shield. “Take _him_! It’sth _rabbit_ stheasthon!”  
            Though he seemed puzzled for a beat, the blockheaded hunter took the bait and aimed the cobalt steel barrel at the rabbit’s buckteeth. Bugs’ eyes widened, long ears flopping downward in despair. Then he whirled around, wrapping his gray furred arms around Daffy.  
            “Hey,” griped the duck, “what’sth the big idea, busthter?”  
            Ignoring Daffy, Bugs turned to Elmer and said, “Eh, haven’t you hoid? If you wanna shoot a couple, you gotta shoot ‘em bot’!” Without further delay, Bugs pulled Daffy close and gave him a big, hearty kiss on the lips. The hunter watched as Daffy literally melted in Bugs’ arms, becoming a puddle of black soup at his big feet.  
            “You’re desthpicable,” the soup gurgled.  
            “Oh, Daffy!” Bugs let out a feminine giggle. “D’ere are kids watching!”  
            “ _Rabbit stheasthon_ — _fire_!”  
            Body otherwise tensed, Bugs reached behind himself and produced a sign that read “ᴜʜ ᴏʜ”. The rabbit then disappeared in a puff of smoke, barely avoiding the blast of Elmer’s gun. Once the smoke cleared, he zipped back with a turkey baster and used it to suck up Daffy.  
            “D’is look familiar, doc?” he asked.  
            Daffy’s eyes looked at him through the tube and narrowed. “I hate you.”  
            Screaming, Bugs and a now-more-or-less-solid Daffy blasted off in a mad dash, with Elmer trailing not far behind. In the midst of this escape attempt, the rabbit leapt up into the air. With the finesse of an Olympic diver, he burrowed into the ground. Daffy screeched to a halt and put his hands on his hips, tapping his webbed foot against the grass.  
            “Oh, great! Now _you’re_ sthafe, but what about meee _eeee_!” Dragging the pronoun out in a shrill, Daffy allowed Bugs to pull him into the narrow hole by his ankle. Once he was in, Bugs straightened and looked up. Noticing he was now trapped almost chest to chest with the smart aleck rabbit, Daffy complained, “Geez! One of usth needsth to losthe sthome weight, and it isthn’t me!”  
            Bugs smirked and placed a gloved finger to his own whiskered lips. Daffy fell silent. Only then did he finally notice the teardrop-shaped pipe between them. Had it always been there, or had it appeared in the blink of the eye for the sake of comic convenience? With how their world worked, he knew there was no way of telling.  
            “Oh, littow wabbit,” Elmer beckoned in a malevolent sing-song. “Come out, come out, whe’evaw you awe!”  
            Bugs snickered into the palm of his hand, using his other thumb to gesture at the pipe. “Get a load a’d’is.”  
            The hunter aimed down into the hole, thus into one end of the pipe. “I’ll give you until the count of ten, wabbit! Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven! Six five four three two one!”  
            A loud bang made Bugs and Daffy jolt and plug their ears with their fingers. The buckshot clanged through the pipe, ricocheting over and over until it made its way around to explode through the other end of the pipe—back up in Elmer’s face. A few seconds of comical birds chirping. Then, a thud on the ground above them.  
            Bugs burst into hysterics. “What a maroon!” He stepped up onto Daffy, using him as leverage to climb back out of the hole as he laughed. The duck, scowling at being used like this, assisted him regardless. “What a nincompoop!” He stuck his head up out of the hole. “What a”—and then he went rigid in Daffy’s arms.  
            “What? What isth it?”  
            There was a long pause, but no answer from the rabbit.  
            “Bugsth, come on! I’m not holding you up for my health here!”  
            “Elmer?” There was genuine concern in Bugs’ voice. This made the duck’s heart sink with momentary fear. With his help, the hare clambered the rest of the way out of the hole on his own, then disappeared from his line of sight.  
            “Hey, fat boy! Elmer! Speak to me!”  
            “Don’t leave me down here!” Daffy shouted. When there was no answer, he started grumbling curses under his breath. Using cartoon logic to his advantage, he jumped up and clawed his way to ground level. After popping out of the hole, he saw nothing but the dark fir trees and green and red bushes that made up the forest. “Bugsth?”  
            “Daffy?”  
            Something about the slight, uncharacteristic tremble in Bugs’ voice helped his fear to return and stick. With hesitation, he turned around. The rabbit stood there in a defensive position. One of his ears had drooped halfway, the other stood alert atop his head.  
            “D-Daff . . .  Some— . . . Somet’ing’s wrong.”  
            The duck let his gaze fall. On the golden grass behind Bugs was Elmer, lying still in a pool of blood.


	2. Mistakes Were Made

It was surreal, more surreal than it likely should’ve been. They’d done this hundreds of times on set, even off set, and no one had ever been hurt. It was a typical slapstick prank, all in good fun. Yet now, he saw blood. Elmer Fudd’s body lay lifeless on the ground behind Bugs. The buckshot from his gun had burrowed into his bleeding face. Thankfully, it’d done no further damage, but this was enough. Somehow, Elmer Fudd was dead.  
            “Bugsth . . . What . . . ?” Daffy was speechless as he stared and contemplated what he was seeing. All of a sudden, he felt frail. The black tint drained from his body, leaving him white and orange and looking more like a goose than ever.  
            “I-I don’t . . .” Bugs stammered as he spoke, which was a tad unusual. He brought his fingertips to his teeth in anxiety as he gazed down at Elmer.  
            For a long moment, neither of them said anything more. Neither of them _knew_ what to say, much less _do_. How could they have known this would happen? How _could_ it have? If that buckshot had hit them instead . . . Daffy shook the thought from his head.  
            Around them, nothing seemed to have changed. The hilltops in the distance hadn’t disappeared or warped. The fir trees loomed over them as they had before. The bushes were still green, red, and full. A yellow leaf fell from a branch. Daffy watched it as it drifted to the ground. It swirled around in the air before coming to a dead halt near Elmer’s gun.  
            “You . . .” Daffy looked up from the gun to Bugs. “You killed him.”  
            Bugs whirled around, giving him a scared, betrayed look. “What? N-no. No, I . . . I didn’t _kill_ him, Daff. D’is—D’is has got to be some soit of joke! He’s pullin’ our legs, yankin’ our chains!” He looked back down at Elmer and smiled in denial. “C’mon, fat boy, you’ve had yoir fun! Joke’s over—get up!”  
            But he didn’t. A bird chirped up in one of the trees around them. Bugs’ smirk slipped away. For once, he seemed afraid. With no control of the situation, his usual wise-cracking nature drowned behind uncertainty and fear.  
            “He ain’t getting up, bud,” Daffy said in a nonchalant manner as he examined his nail-less fingertips. His coping measure was to act like everything was okay. Besides, it wasn’t often he got to see Bugs like this. If he was going to pretend everything was fine, he might as well milk this opportunity. “He’sth definitely kicked the bucket.”  
            “Shut _up_ , Daffy!” countered Bugs in a panicked fury.  
            “Sthomeone should call an ambulancthe.”  
            “Yoi’re right!” Bugs stiffened and blinked. “Wow. I can’t believe I said d’at.” While Daffy gushed in silence, the rabbit produced an old-fashioned brick cellphone and dialed 9-1-1. “Hello?” he said, managing to keep his voice casual. “Yes, d’is is Bugs Bunny callin’. Um, I need an ambulance here, STAT. D’ere’s been an, uh . . . an accident.”  
            “ _Bugsth killed Elmer Fudd_!” Daffy shrieked into the phone.  
            Bugs glared at Daffy, but otherwise only moved away and let out a nervous titter. “He’s, err, jokin’, doc!” A pause. “Yes?” Another. “Yes. D’ank you. Please hurry.”  
            “Well, what wasth sthaid?” Daffy asked as Bugs hung up and tossed the phone over his shoulder.  
            “You should go now, Daff. Don’t wanna be in d’e way when d’ey come to pick up ol’ Elmer here, do you?” Seeming rather indifferent all of a sudden, Bugs started to walk past Daffy to go back into his hole.  
            “No way!” The duck caught his friend’s arm and pulled him back with it. As if a bit surprised, Bugs looked at him. Narrowing his eyes, he stressed, “Couplesth sthick together.”  
            “You do know d’at I only did d’at to confuse Elmer and annoy you, right?”  
            Daffy made a long “ _Pfffffft_ ” that ended with him coughing and sputtering. He took a deep breath before saying, “Of _coursthe_ I know that! I’m not _sthupid_ , Bugsth.”  
            Bugs raised a brow, skepticism clear. “D’en let go of my arm.”  
            “Oh. Heh, heh. Sthorry.” Upon releasing the hare’s arm, Daffy proceeded stroking his fur back into place, as if trying to make it perfect.  
            “Eh . . . Daffy, you all right?”  
            “All right? I’m fine! Abstholutely peachy!” Of course, he wasn’t; inside, he was still screaming in terror.  
            Bugs stared at Daffy, concern written across his face. His triangular pink nose twitched. “Well, Daff . . . As much as I appreciate, err, _whatever_ it is yoi’re doin’ . . . I’ve gotta skidaddle.” When he tried to run, though, Daffy’s grip on his arm returned, tighter than before.  
            “You know who runsth, Bugsth?” the little black duck asked.  
            A grim look crept onto the hare. “A killer?”  
            “Uh, no. Sthpeedy. Geez, look who’sth become Misthter Morbid Marvin over here.”  
            “No, you’re right, Daffy. We should stay.”  
            The duck’s eyes bulged from his head. “Stht-sthtay? We’ll get arresthted!”  
            “We’re stayin’.”  
            “No, we’re going!”  
            “Stayin’.”  
            “Going!”  
            “Stayin’.”  
            “ _Going_!”  
            “Goin’.”  
            “We’re _sthtaying_ , and that’sth _that_!” Grumbling to himself, the duck slouched over with his arms crossed.  
            “Whatever you say, Daff.” Bugs pulled out a nail file and patiently ran it across his gloved fingertips. It took about five seconds for Daffy to final realize he’d been duped, at which point he roared in frustration. Then, he turned to Bugs and started screaming incoherent obscenities at him. As he did this, Bugs reached behind himself and pulled out a poster board with a screw and a ball drawn on it.  
            Almost before they knew it, the ambulance arrived. Two human paramedics stepped out and froze for a second, as if confused by the blood. Then, they looked at Bugs and Daffy. The hare shrugged, beaming at them in nervousness.  
            “Eh . . . Wh-what’s up, doc . . . ?”  
            The paramedics moved toward Elmer and crouched down to assist him. Huddled together, they started murmuring to each other. Daffy watched how Bugs grew more and more agitated, desperate to know what they were saying to each other. He shuffled closer to them, rabbit ears poking into their conversation. But before he could hear much, they noticed the intrusion and shot him a glare, to which he tensed and beamed at them again.  
            “Eh heh heh . . .” he tittered as he slunk back toward Daffy, ears down somewhat.  
            Moving closer to him, the duck mumbled, “We should _bolt_ , Bugsth.”  
            “Bolt?” the hare hushed back. “Why?”  
            “It’sth either that or the policthe show up and sthtart questhtioning us. You look stho guilty, the way you’re sthtanding there. Like a deer in the headlightsth.”  
            Nervous, Bugs glanced down at himself. “Do I?”  
            Daffy slapped his palm again his own face. “You sthupid sthon of a—”  
            “What happened here?” the male paramedic asked.  
            “Uh . . .” Bugs fumbled, searching for an answer but unable to find one. “W-well . . . Um . . .”  
            Noticing his friend’s incoherency, Daffy let out a loud, impatient huff. “Why should we tell you dweebsth anything? It’sth not like you’re the copsth.”  
            “We’d be able to assess the scene better if one of you could explain to us how this happened.”  
            “Fair enough.” The cool, collected response made Bugs shoot him a sharp glare.  
            “Eh, Daff, I t’ink we need t—”  
            “Not now, Bugsth.”  
            “No, I really t’ink we need to _discuss_ —”  
            “I sthaid not now!” The duck cleared his throat and stood straight. “Sthee, what happened wasth, Elmer here”—he gestured at the hunter’s body—“wasth hunting usth down, asth per usthual. Bugsth burrowed under the ground to get away, and I, being stho clever, followed him down. Now, thisth smart aleck thought he had a stholution to our _sthticky_ sthituation: a pipe to redirect the bullet. When Elmer fired at usth, his shot ricocheted back at him. But when we came out of the hole, we found him lying there like thisth!”  
            The ambulance worked turned their gazes toward Bugs. “So,” said the male, “you mean to tell us . . . ?”  
            Bugs tensed up. He opened his mouth as if to defend himself, but closed it a few seconds later and shrunk under their stares.  
            “I see.”  
            “I-it was an accident, doc. I swear!”  
            For a long beat, no one said anything. The male started doing chest compressions on Elmer, though Bugs and Daffy both felt certain it would do no good. Meanwhile, the other paramedic, a female, continued to stare at Bugs.  
            Sweating somewhat under her suspicious gaze, the hare stammered, “I don’t suppose it’d help if I gave a lil’ ‘ _mea culpa_ ’?”  
            She raised a brow. “Well, Mr. Bunny,” she started, “you _do_ have a history of being rectitudinous.”  
            While Bugs smiled, the sound of such an uncommon and complex word made Daffy’s eyes bulge.  
            “What on earth doesth _that_ mean?”  
            Bugs looked at him with a smug smirk. “It means d’at yoi’re an idiot.”  
            “Oh.” A pause. “Hey!”  
            The rabbit giggled before turning back to the ambulance workers. He seemed to have regained his composure, but avoided any glimpse of Elmer’s body. “Well, uh, if you don’t mind, doc and doc-ette, we’ve gotta run now.”  
            Suspicious again, the woman raised a brow. “Are you sure?”  
            A shaky nod. “Yeah, uh”—the additional “uh” earned him a sharp elbow from Daffy—“I promised Daffy here that we could have . . .” Amidst his inner panic, he wrung his mind for an excuse. “Pr— . . . Private . . . time . . .”  
            “What was that?”  
            “Sorry, gotta go!” Bugs leapt up and dove into the ground, frantically burrowing a path that caused the dirt to raise as he went.  
            With a huff, Daffy said, “Look, it wasth good talking to you, but I sthupposthe that’sth my cue to go. Sthee you around!” He lunged for the hole and started burrowing after Bugs. “Sthupid rabbit!” he shouted after him. “Wait for me!”  
            The female paramedic watched them go with a sigh.  
            “Should we really have let them leave?” asked her co-worker.  
            “What, you think the celebrity cartoons would have a reason to lie about this?”  
            “Wait!”  
            “What is it?”  
            The man looked at her, his surprise clear to see. He didn’t get a chance to say anything before he was cut off by a weak groan. A weak groan coming from the mouth of Elmer Fudd.


	3. Daffy, the Pet Peeve

The further Daffy burrowed after Bugs, the hotter the narrow passage seemed to become. Whether that was due to exertion or them burrowing into a different climate, though, he couldn’t be sure. Dirt was dirt, after all, and in the near black of their hand-made tunnel, he could see no difference.  
            “Hey, stho . . . Are we _going_ sthomewhere, Bugsthie ol’ pal? Becausthe I’m not digging for my health here.”  
            Bugs’ only response to the complaint was to keep burrowing. Right as Daffy felt he may explode, though, the hare stopped. Without any warning of his own, the duck then felt his bill smack into Bugs’ bushy tail. Immediately, he recoiled, only to slam the top of his head into the hard dirt above.  
            “Sthon of a . . . Bugsth!”  
            “‘Dis seems like an all right place to stop,” Bugs said, though Daffy couldn’t help but feel like he sounded unsure. Even so, the gray hare raised his gloves hands and efficiently burrowed up to the surface. The abrupt appearance of light made Daffy recoil once more, again knocking his head.  
            “Agh!” shouted the duck in protest.  
            After blinking his eyes to adjust, Daffy caught a glimpse of Bugs’ big rabbit feet as they slipped up into the opening. He then proceeded to wait for a long moment, expecting Bugs to offer a hand to help him up. Idly, he examined his fingertips, kicking his flippers behind him in the limited space.  
            It took a few seconds for Daffy to finally realize Bugs had no intention to help him, so he lowered his hand and scoffed. “Fine. I guessth I’ll help _mysthelf_ out, then.” He huffed, then added, under his breath, “And they sthay chivalry isthn’t dead.”  
            The first thing Daffy saw when he poked his head up was a deep golden yellow color. Looking around a little more provided more details: magenta-colored (or were they maroon?) rocks made up most of the landscape. There was a cracked road off a ways from where he’d emerged, with two yellow-orange lines in the middle. It wound off into the horizon, off into the due sunset.  
            But what bothered Daffy almost as much as the utter plainness of it all was the immense heat. When he placed his hands onto the sand to lift himself out, he could’ve sworn he started to smell cooked duck. It was almost as if they were in some kind of . . .  
            “The _desthert_?” Daffy snarked. “What, did you forget to take that infamousth ‘left toin at Albukoikee’ again?”  
            There was no answer from the hare, though he was still standing nearby. When Daffy looked up at him, he noticed how he had his back turned, gazing off into the distance . . . and couldn’t help but wonder what on earth the rabbit could find so damn interesting out here. There was nothing but hot sand, ugly rocks, winding roads to nowhere, and the _heat_.  
            Daffy raised a hand, using it to fan himself to little effect. “ _Phew_! Feelsth like I’m boiling alive out here, Bugsth. Let’sth get out of here.” As he said this, he crossed his feet into the burrow. It was cooler underground, suddenly Daffy was in no rush to remove himself from the hole.  
            Still, though, there came no response from the hare. Daffy glanced at him once more. He stood rigid, like a statue. Though Daffy thought he noticed him trembling a little, he passed if off as being the effect of heat waves.  
            “Bugsth?” he asked, a bit more force in his voice.  
            “Why did ‘dat happen, Daff?” The question came out of nowhere. Daffy watched as Bugs curled his hands into fists. “No‘tin’ like ‘dat has evah happened befoah. I’ve done ‘dat gag sevoiral times.” His voice started to break, just a little. “I didn’t ‘tink it would hoit him, much less . . .” Then, he trailed off, as if unable to bring himself to say it.  
            It was Daffy’s turn to be quiet, but instead, he took the moment to add, “. . . kill him?”  
            Bugs visibly cringed at the words. “Don’t say it!”  
            “Well, you gotta fasthe the factsth, good buddy,” Daffy countered, sardonic, as he finally emerged and stood up behind Bugs. “You killed Elmer Fudd. Now, I don’t want to sthay he _destherved_ it, but histh favorite passthtime _wasth_ pointing a gun at usth . . .”  
            “ _We_ ,” Bugs stressed. He turned to face Daffy, a harsh, determined look sewn onto his fluffy face. Despite this, his voice retained a level of desperate insistence as he continued, “ _We_ killed Elmer Fudd.”  
            Daffy’s eyes widened. He placed a hand on his chest, offended. “We? Oh, no, busthter. I didn’t have anything to do with that, and you know it. You’re the one who redirected the shot.”  
            “Oh, and what, I was s’pposed to let him shoot one of us?” Bugs bit back. With a hand on his hip, he stepped closer, jabbing at Daffy’s breastbone in an accusatory gesture. “If it hoit him, what do you ‘tink would’ve happened if one of us took ‘de shot instead, eh?”  
            “Well, then it wasth sthelf-defensthe. What are you stho worried about?”  
            Bugs got up in Daffy’s face. “I’m worried ‘dat some‘ting’s real wrong here! People could get hoit, Daff, or woise!”  
            “Pff, relax”—Daffy raised his hand, then let his wrist fall limp—“It’sth not like you could possthibly kill someone else.”  
            “ _We_ , Daffy.”  
            “You.”  
            “We.”  
            “You!”  
            “You.”  
            “ _We_ aren’t going to kill anybody elsthe!”  
            The retaliation earned a bittersweet expression from Bugs. When Daffy realized what had happened, rather than feel anger, he realized why the hare was making that face. It was a strange thing to say, something that under different circumstances, could’ve been funny. Yet, now, it only put the gravity of their situation into perspective – a situation where one of them could seriously exclaim that.  
            Despite this, Daffy crossed his arms and tried to seem annoyed. “Really? Twicthe in one—”  
            A loud “ _Yipe!_ ” in the distance cut Daffy off, then he saw a dark blur rocket into the air behind Bugs. As if sensing this, the hare slowly pivoted to watch as well. Going up into an arch, the blur then started to fall down. It didn’t take long for the two Tunes to realize it was headed straight for them, at which point they shot each other typical, cartoonish “uh-oh” faces.  
            The indistinguishable shape slammed into Bugs, who then slammed into Daffy. In a layered stack, all three skidded into the sand, until Daffy’s head, bearing the most weight, had been completely submerged. Then, while Bugs remained on top of Daffy, the force of the stop shot the blur into a nearby desert wall—Daffy heard this, or rather felt it.  
            A faint sound kept Daffy from letting himself pass out—though it was hard to make out, he recognized it as Bugs, groaning. As soon as it stopped, another followed it: Bugs’ concerned voice.  
            “Daff?”  
            Then, something he couldn’t distinguish, not until the sand above his head was dug away. Head still spinning, Daffy gazed up at Bugs. His gray fur almost had a golden tint to it from the sunlight. He watched the hare’s face as it shifted from worry to relief, then couldn’t help but stare. For once, that stupid rabbit looked kind of . . . cute?  
             _Wow. That blow to the head mustht’ve knocked sthomething loosthe.  
            _Bugs took a shaky breath. “‘Dank goodness. I ‘tought ‘dat . . .” He again trailed off.  
            All Daffy was able to muster in response was a dazed, “ _My mother wasth a stheamsthressth . . ._ ”  
            Bugs giggled a little. Before Daffy could take in how sincere it was, though, the hare looked ahead and smirked. “Oh,” he said, “woid you look who it is?” He then looked back down. “Eh, sorry, Daff.” Finally, he stood up—it wasn’t until he felt the hare’s weight lift off his stomach that he realized Bugs had been sitting on him.  
            As the rabbit began walking away, Daffy turned over on the ground to watch him. Sure enough, he was approaching the thing that had hit them: Wile E. Coyote, now upside-down, back against the cracking rock wall he’d slammed into. He was rigid there, balancing on his head, but when Bugs touched his foot, he at last tipped over.  
            Bugs craned his body over the crumpled coyote, almost seeming timid. “Eh, are you okay, Doc?”  
            The dazed coyote sat up, then shook his head, creating yet another blur.  
            Bugs held out a hand toward him. “Need a hand?”  
            “Oh, of course you offer _him_ help,” Daffy grumbled, rolling his eyes.  
            With narrowed, yellow-ish eyes, the coyote looked Bugs over from head to toe. Apparently satisfied with his scrutiny, he at last took Bugs’ delicate gloved hand into his own of matted brown fur and sharp claws. Daffy watched as Bugs helped the coyote to his feet, then took in the noticeable height difference between them. While Bugs was still taller than the duck himself, compared to Wile E. he was almost adorably tiny. Even with a crick in the coyote’s back causing him to appear shorter than he was, Bugs’ face came only to his tapered chest—ears reaching only just short of the base of his. Though the coyote appeared much scrawnier, Daffy could somehow tell that Wile E. could overpower either of them with ease if he tried.  
            Despite all this, though, somehow Bugs managed to stand tall before him, looking up at him the way one might look up at an old friend.  
            “Eh, how ya been, ‘genius’?” The rabbit crooned. “Been a while since I saw you last.” Placing both hands on his hips now, he leaned over a bit to examine something—the coyote’s singed tail, Daffy soon realized. “I, eh, take it ‘dat ol’ stinker Road Runner’s still puttin’ up a good fight.”  
            There came no answer from the coyote. If Daffy didn’t know any better, he might’ve thought he detected some impatience in his crooked stance.  
            Spurred on by a sudden fear that one of them may wind up in the canine’s digestive tract, Daffy finally stood. “Hey, what’sth the big idea, busther?” he spat, brushing his black, downy feathers of sand. “It’sth rude to drop into a conversthation uninvited, don’t you know?”  
            Wile E. glared at him. Again, the coyote’s eyes scrutinized, so Daffy responded by crossing his arms over his chest.  
            “Bugsth, you know thisth creep?”  
            Bugs beamed. “Soir do. Wile E. and I shared a few cartoons back in our day. How many was it again? Five or so?”  
            “Yeah, well, we’re off sthcript right now, stho don’t go getting comfy.” Then, Daffy had a thought. “Sthpeaking of . . . didn’t you sthee sthome sthort of sthcript for . . . you know?”  
            At last, the hare shifted his gaze from Wile E. to Daffy, albeit with a somewhat troubled expression. “Daff . . .”  
            “Wasth it sthupposthed to end like it did?”  
            Bugs looked away. Then, he again looked to Wile E., managing a weary smile. “It was nice seein’ ya, Doc.”  
            “Well?” Daffy continued, unrestrained. “You alwaysth stheem to know justht what’sth going on. You’re all, ‘oh, I’m Bugsth, I’m imperturbable, blah blah blah’. Why don’t _I_ ever get to read the sthcript?”  
            “Daffy!” Bugs snapped, now turning completely away from the tall coyote. The duck fell silent. After a beat, the hare admitted, “You know ‘dere was no script. ‘Dere wasn’t even any crew to recoid it, and even if ‘dere woir, why would ‘dey not call ‘cut’ or some‘tin’? Can you honestly look at me and ‘tink I was at all prepared for _that_?”  
            Daffy processed this, but found himself unable to believe it. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew you were going to kill him.”  
            Bugs slunk back, brows furrowed in . . . was it pain or guilt? “I . . .” He struggled to start a defense, something Daffy had never seen him need to do before.  
            “Wait . . . Really? You did? And . . . And you did it anyway?”  
            “No!” Bugs finally protested. “ _No_! Daffy, you know me. I’m not some kinda monster. I don’t go into any‘tin’ plannin’ to hoit nobody. ‘Dere was no plannin’ anyway, he just showed up! It was . . . It was just a _joke_!”  
            “You’re a murderer! You wanted to get back at him for all the timesth he shoved that gun in your facthe, stho you killed him!”  
            The hare lunged forward, using both hands to clamp Daffy’s bill shut. “Daff, stop it!” He looked back at Wile E. with a pathetic look on his face, and the duck watched as the coyote replied with an indifferent (if not impressed?) stare.  
            “What are _you_ stho sthmug about?” Daffy tried to ask him, but it came out more as incoherent grunts around his closed bill. “You’re not the one who justht killed a guy.”  
            Bugs narrowed his own eyes, using them to glare hard at Daffy. “Daff, I’m woinin’ ya. Stop. Talkin’.”  
            “Why should I listhten to a murderer?”  
            Bugs must’ve been able to understand what he said, because next thing Daffy knew, he was lying on the sand, cheek stinging. He blinked a bit before sitting up, placing a hand on the affected area. Looking up, he watched as Wile E. stepped forward like he was about to restrain Bugs. The hare only raised a hand to stop him, though, and said, “The joik had it comin’.”  
            “You . . . You hit me,” Daffy exclaimed, incredulous.  
            “You desoived it,” Bugs responded with a firm voice.  
            Daffy lowered his head, still stunned and very much confused.  
             _Thisth, justht after he sthaysth he never hurtsth anybody . . .  
            _The hare turned to look at Wile E. “Eh, might as well skedaddle, Doc. I soir know _I_ am.”  
            All at once, Daffy shot his gaze back up to Bugs. “Wait, what? You’re leaving me? In the desthert? Alone? With no water or meansth of transthportathion?”  
            “Yep.” With as much as another word, Bugs turned a cold shoulder on Daffy and began strutting off further into the desert.  
            Blinded by fury, Daffy flew to his feet and snarled. “Well . . . _Well_ . . . Well, who needsth ya, you sthupid, arrogant, sthelf-centered rabbit! Not I, that’sth who! If you leave me, it’sth no skin off my back! In fact, if anything, I’m relieved! Stho go ahead and die of thirstht out there, while you’re at it!”  
            When Bugs paid no attention to his shouting and instead kept walking, Daffy looked down to his feet. Finding a small rock to be there, he picked it up, then whipped it in the hare’s direction. It fell short, however, and Bugs paid no mind to it, either.  
            Still furious and needing to take his anger out on someone else, Daffy whipped around to face Wile E. and shouted, “And justht what do you think _you’re_ sthtaring at, busthter?” Only then did he realize that Wile E. was gone. When he looked back to where Bugs had been, he found the rabbit disappeared as well.  
            Finally, defeated, Daffy crossed his arms, slouched, and let out low grumbles to himself.

* * *

With his superior intellect, refined sense of smell, and the desert’s overall lack of obstacles, it wasn’t hard for Wile E. to trail the hare unnoticed. For a little while, he watched as Bugs wandered aimlessly through the desert landscape. Nomadic as he was, he was lost, Wile E. could tell.  
            Bugs Bunny had always posed a significant challenge to him, one less of skill than of wits. It was respectable, sure, but frustrating. How could a super genius such as himself keep losing to such scrawny prey? Bugs was clever, but by no means smarter. Yet, the script would never allow Bugs to fail. Wile E., on the other hand . . .  
            There was a swell of bitter pride in his chest, following the hare now, as he realized the climax of their conflict was long overdue. Now, Bugs didn’t have a script to keep him safe. He didn’t know what was coming next, thus could do no prior planning.  
            Still, the news of Bugs “murdering” someone was perplexing at best. He had to wonder what that dim-witted duck was talking about. Whatever it was, though, it had certainly done a good job of rattling the tiny bunny. Yet another thing Wile E. could take advantage of . . .  
            He soon had to stop following so close, as the hare stopped in his tracks. Pulling a carrot seemingly out of nowhere, the bunny then chewed it a little as he looked left, then right. To himself, the hare said, “Eh, now . . . Where am I going?”  
            Let the games begin.  
            “I’m afraid you won’t find much out here, my boy,” Wile E. purred in his deep, refined voice. He took glee in watching the way Bugs’ plump, small body jumped and whirled around, and the momentary look of fear on his face at the sudden words.  
            “Oh, it’s just you,” Bugs said on a breath, relaxing, but only a bit. Trying to play it cool, he crossed his arms, still holding the carrot in his left hand. “Didn’t I tell you to go back to yoir business?”  
            Wile E. smirked, doing his best to look innocent. “Why, little rabbit, I’m afraid you _are_ my business. Would it not be cruel of me to leave you to wander the desert without guidance? It is a dangerous place, after all.”  
            Bugs fidgeted a bit, but other than that, didn’t move. “Eh, listen, bub . . . As much as I appreciate it, I ‘tink I can handle myself.”  
            “Oh, no, I insist!” Deciding to keep up the façade rather than let the hare know how wrong he was, Wile E. stepped closer. With gentle firmness, he made Bugs turn to the left, pushing him a little to walk alongside a rock wall. “I’ll lead you to somewhere you can rest your delectable little rabbit’s feet.”  
            “Heh . . . Yeah . . .” Though it was plain to see that he was uncomfortable, Bugs did little to resist.  
            “Now come along. I’d like to have you for dinner.”  
            Bugs’ ears twitched. “Eh . . . I ‘tink you meant _over_ for dinner, D—”  
            Before the hare could finish his correction, Wile E. grabbed his long ears by their base and used this hold to slam Bugs’ head into the wall. With no further fight, the hare collapsed to the desert floor, unconscious.  
            Wile E. rubbed his claws against his breast, then blew on them coolly. “While that might not be good sportsmanship,” the coyote assured no one in particular, “it definitely makes things easier for me.”


End file.
